Through the Years
by Bottle of Smoke
Summary: They have grown up and old together, have seen each other at their best and worst, and try every Christmastime, to come together.


_Through the years, we all will be together_

_ If the Fates allow_

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* * *

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_1900_

They take clumps of the thin, shimmery strands and toss them over the tree, catching on branches and tangling in tight knots. Shining orbs are hung with on limbs, spaced evenly apart. It is a long process, one of preparations and days of anticipation, with smiles and cheer as fuel. They laugh and tease, and hand each other the next adornment.

When the last popcorn strand is wound around the tree, they step back and absorb the beauty of the tree.

"Not that bad," Digory notes.

"I suppose it's just as good as my tree," Polly jokes. Digory gives her a playful shove.

- x -

_1904_

"You made this yourself, Polly?" he asks, a mouthful of gingerbread dampening his voice.

"Yes – no help from Mother or Aunt Jane," she replies, setting two glasses of milk on the table. "Is it any good?"

"Delicious." He swallows, and reaches for his milk, taking a long swig. Polly sits down, swirling the milk around in her glass.

"Have you been thinking about college?" she asks, taking a slice of bread.

"Yes. I'm hoping Oxford will take me, but I'm fine with Cambridge." He takes another bite of gingerbread, Polly smiling at him.

"I'll miss you," she softly says.

"Miss you too," he repeats, dense as the bread he eats.

- x -

_1909_

Millie's party is far too loud and out of control for Digory's liking. The eggnog has been passed around a bit too freely, and John Carlton is shouting again, the drink going to his head.

"Oh Dig darling, where are you going?" the hostess asks, dragging her husband along.

"Need a nip of fresh air, Millie," he mutters, as he heads for the back door. He sees a tall, slender girl sitting on the step outside, and he draws back, before he realizes who it is.

"Polly?" he questions.

"Yes, Digory?" She turns and looks at him, a small smile on her lips. He swallows and sits down next to her.

"I didn't know that you're friends with Millie."

"Well, you make a lot of friends when you're home and being domestic." She tilts her head just so, the moonlight catching her red hair. "How's the grad student coming along?"

"Hoping to get an assistant professorship in a few years," he sighed.

"So much school. I wonder what you'd do if they suddenly flung you out on the streets," she laughs, clear and lovely.

"I seem married to it sometimes, don't I?" He catches a quick glimpse of her, a knowing look passing across her face. "Say, why don't –" John's unholy shrieks interrupt him.

"Dear John, I told him to stay away from the eggnog," she sighs. "Do you have the time, Digs?"

"Almost midnight," he replies, glancing at his wrist.

"Oh dear. I need to go to bed. I've got to help with the Ladies Aid tomorrow. They're giving out toys for orphans." She stands and brushes herself off, the blue dress shimmering in the night.

"Oh, you're not going so soon?" He stands and catches her elbow. "We've just seen each other after the longest time."

"I'm not going anywhere soon, Dear. I'm still right next door," she replies, the same warm smile on her face. She opens the door and stops, a slight thud heard. She looks up and furrows her brow. "Oh, Millie. Cunning little thing, isn't she?"

Digory feels his heart leap, as he sees the small cluster of mistletoe above Polly's head. He catches her elbow again and presses a soft yet firm kiss on her lips. He pulls away, his cheeks burning at his audacity. Polly is silent, still.

She sees in his eyes that same look she had three years ago, that had burned so brightly and fled. She fakes a smile and swiftly leaves.

- x -

_1913_

"So this is where you've been hid up for the past few months," Polly says, dropping a large satchel on his desk. He jumps up, surprised and awake.

"Mmmm, Pawllywhaddadoon'heere?" he slurs, rubbing his eyes and smacking his lips. He has fallen asleep at his desk…again. He blinks, the artificial light too much for him. "What time is it?"

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon on the twenty-third of December, and you're out cold on a stack of Homer." She sits in the leather chair across from him, poised and fresh. Digory feels a scowl form on his lips.

"Well, I have the right to sleep where I want, don't I?" He feels his mind come together, as he realizes that he had last been conscious on the twenty-first. "My God, I slept through yesterday."

"And that's why I'm here, dear Digory," she smiles. "I know it's your first term as an assistant professor, but you're doing far too much. Your parents haven't heard from you in days – _I _haven't heard from you in days." He wipes the spit off his lip, and realizes that his mouth is sour and dry. Polly sighs and hands him her handkerchief and a canteen of water. "Maybe I should have married you – someone needs to look after you."

"Polly, I'm fine," he gasps, after a long swig of water. He coughs, the sudden hydration too much for his overworked, underfed body.

"Mmhm." She takes the canteen back and straightens his glasses. "Listen, the term's over. Let's go out and do something – ice skate, maybe see something at the cinema?"

"But I have all of this work," he says, looking down at the stack of paper now covered in slobber. He examines the first page, which looks vaguely like the rough draft of the paper he was writing.

"That's all your work, dear, not your students, or your professor's students," Polly notes. She gets up and takes his hand in hers. "Come on. Maybe we'll get some ice cream – my treat."

- x -

_1919 _

He is thin now, thinner than he was when he was pubescent. His cheeks stick out and his waist is smaller than hers. (But, then again, Polly stopped wearing a corset a long time ago). Six months after returning home he still can't keep a single pound on his body.

She, on the other hand, has grown older in time. The past year has made little indents on her face, small lines along her eyes and lips. Her figure has gone to waste, but she never cared in the first place – she's thirty now, and shouldn't be bothered with matters of youth.

They sit in comfortable silence, happy to be together again.

- x -

_1924_

"I'd say that thirty-five years is really long for someone to have their parents, isn't it?" Polly asks, quietly.

"It is," he replies, sitting on her couch. Digory thinks of his own mother, safe at home and perfectly healthy, and his father, a victim of the flu.

"And it was a quick death – not like poor Mother's." She hangs her thick, black wool coat over a hanger.

"It's just very strange to be having Christmas without Mum or Father," she sighs, sitting next to him. "That first Christmas without Mum was awful, but I got used to it – waking up with only Father there to exchange gifts. Now, well…it's just me in the morning." Her voice gets husky, and she swallows the lump in her throat.

He squeezes her hand. "Would you mind having me here for Christmas, Polly?"

She smiles, weakly. "Of course not, Dear."

- x -

_1930_

"Oh dear…I hope that bust wasn't too dear to you," Polly says, holding Ovid's head in one hand and his broken neck and shoulders in the other.

"Truth be told, I wish someone would smash his head in sometimes," Digory smiles, taking the fractured genius in his hands. "One less thing to worry about arranging." He drops him in a waste bin.

"It's so strange having to take a train out to see you," Polly notes, sitting in her favorite armchair. "No more late nights busting down your door, or impromptu trips to the cinema."

"I'm getting a bit too old for that," Digory groans, sitting opposite her. He rubs his knees, arthritic and creaky.

"Oh, you're only old because you're letting yourself get old," Polly tosses aside, swinging her right leg over her left. "See, I'm just as nimble as the day we went to Narnia."

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "How did I get middle aged, Polly?"

"You let it happen, I suppose," she sighs, examining a book on the table next to her. "Becoming the department head, moving out to the country, wearing argyle."

"I always wear argyle," he says, furrowing his brows.

"Exactly. I sometimes think you were born middle-aged, Digory Kirke. Even your name screams 'I'm some old frump, creaky and crusty as the languages I teach.'"

"And Polly Plummer's any better?" He sits up straight, trying to gain some ground.

"Oh, you'll be surprised, I still get callers. Seems that I don't look or act a day over twenty-five."

"Twenty-five my arse! You have a tremor in your hand, now," he jabs. She tucks her hand away.

"Well, what if I do? I don't go moaning about it, sitting up like a codger, gathering dust."

"Old codger! I'll show you old codger," he declares, bounding from his seat and running towards her. She shrieks and jumps out of her chair, running out of the parlor and pass the head of house, mystified as ever.

"Still faster than you!"

"We'll see about that!" She dashes up the stairs, a triumphant smile on her face. He still is able to sprint up the stairs, two at a time, self-pity and all.

- x -

_1940_

"So what's so important you had to 'phone me up at work?" Polly asks, settling into her chair.

"You know that I took in some children from London over autumn?" Digory says, standing beside her.

"Yes. The Pevensies, correct?"

He takes in a deep breath, excited and nervous. "Polly," he whispers, not out of fear, but reverence, "Polly, they went to Narnia."

She is still, stiff with shock. "Are you sure?"

"Yes – they mentioned it by name, went through my wardrobe, everything." He knelt down, close to her still lovely face. "They mentioned Aslan and Jadis, and how…well, it's their story to tell."

"Oh, but Digory, what does this mean?"

"Well, it means we're not alone anymore."

She plucks at her sleeve. "You know, I always wondered if it was possible to go back. Did you?"

"Well, of course. Ever since we left," he replies, a sad smile on his lips. "I would always stand by my tree, search all around for a hole or something to get me there. I guess I should have peeked inside the wardrobe... Much easier to get into than some rabbit hole."

"Do you think we could…" her voice trails off, so hopeful.

"Oh, Polly, I wish we could. But Narnia is not for the old – 'That is no country for old men.'" He sighs, heavy hearted. "I wish we could, though."

She closes her eyes, thinking back to the very first dawn. "You know, it's been forty years since we last went."

"Strange to say, even now," he sighs. They fall silent, captive in their reveries.

- x -

_1949_

"Oh dear, you kept this?" Digory says, examining the doily angel.

"Of course. It's from our first Christmas, remember?" She smiles, just as wide and bright as before. "Except she was in a little better shape than she is now." She pulls out a box of red, shining orbs, and hangs one on the branch in front of her.

"Mine is crumpled up somewhere. I only put up a four foot tree now – nothing like this," he says, craning his neck to see the top of the towering tree.

"Well, it's motivation – I always get a seven foot tree, and make sure to decorate all of it myself – no friends or neighbors. I'm not as much of an invalid as they think I am." She closes up the empty box, and fishes out another. "Ah, my favorite." She pulls out a porcelain lion, tall and regal, and sets it on a bough.

They step back and absorb the tree, filled with bright lights and glass ornaments. "It's absolutely lovely."

"I suppose it's as nice as my tree," Digory brushes off. Polly jabs him in the ribs, laughing.

* * *

Something small for the holidays. Happy Holidays to everyone!


End file.
